Roses
by Miss-shiva-adler
Summary: Antonio Salieri never prayed to God.


**Title:**Roses  
**Rating:** PG  
**Words**: 1,746  
**Summary :** Antonio Salieri never prayed to God

**Author's note: ** Little ficlet for Mewsol to cheer her up.

Antonio Salieri never prayed to god. It wasn't his habit. Kneeling and talk to an entity that had never been present in the most important parts of his life, was in his eyes astoundingly absurd. If God was there, if He existed, He was either very blind or really indifferent to the suffering of his flock. Antonio Salieri never prayed, as a boy of 13 years he had knelt at the foot of his bed before sleeping to pray for the recovery of his mother. Every night he had repeated the same ritual, right before bed time, in mere hope that God would hear his prayer and erase his mother's illness.

She died. He had grieved for months, the pain of losing her leaving a gaping hole in his existence. 2 years passed, a little prayer was pronounced every night, hoping that his mother was in better place. It's then that his beloved father, in turn, saw his last breath being taken away by death. At that moment he had asked himself: Why? Why, if He really was such the caring God He pretended to be, why would have let this happen. Wretched and grieving he was taken into the monastery. The monks, and particularly his brother, had tried to make him understand, that it was meant to be. God's will, that's what they called it. "_God will be the one to decide; your fate and the path you'll take in life, are part of the redemption story He has written for you_._ Fighting it would be fighting against God._"

Well was it really ? Even then the words had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He went to church regularly even with the doubt plaguing his mind. But eventually, a few months later, he found his path again, when he encountered Herr Gassmann, the man that would become his adopted father. Happiness, at last, love and bliss, his passion for music taking shape and being developed. At the age of 24 Salieri had found his faith again, his talent for composing starting to blossom into something beautiful. It was then that fate, beautiful and cruel fate written out by God, snatched away the illusion and the idea of family that had taken him so much time to build. His adopted father died, freak carriage accident. Ever since then he had lost any ounce of faith he had left previously. He had rejected, rejected that God who would only destroy what he loved.

Antonio Salieri never prayed to god, it was a rule he had imposed on himself. He wouldn't think a second about turning himself to that entity, supposed to be the Father for all, for any guidance. But not today, today was different. He had come back from the Burgtheater to his music room in the palace to get the spare music sheets he had forgotten on a table next to the fortepiano. Then suddenly anxiety overcame his senses; his heart accelerating, making his breathing ragged; his hands; starting to tremble as if they were possessed; his legs feeling heavy and constrictive; the urge to flee was lurking inside of him. He had closed his eyes and shaken his head, trying to make the feeling go away. He had tried to take over control on his breathing again; inhaling; exhaling; he was already feeling better.

A few minutes had passed until he felt himself calm down completely. He had taken seat on the bench in front of the fortepiano, the question prominent in his head as to what had caused such disarray in his mind. He was familiar with the insecurity and the restlessness that appeared right before a premiere. Most of the time he was able to draw strength from it and continue with what he was doing to give the evening a good ending. He only remembered two times in his life time when he had been like a hound ready to bite and attack whomever was doing something wrong. In those two rare cases his behavior had reduced him into being pretty disrespectful, mostly against his own work. But this? This was new, never ever had he experienced such loss of control on his own mind and body before.

He felt disoriented, wondering about what he was feeling, about what he knew of himself. He felt panic rising again, insecurity. Insecurity in connection to everything, his music, his being. He had then knelt in front of the fortepiano and joined his hands together; folding his fingers. His elbows rested upon the bench. He inhaled and exhaled, closing his eyes.

He had expanded the instrumentation, created and composed new arias. He had embellished, polished his art, to give only the finest of Italian operas to the court of Vienna. Nancy Storace, the prima donna, had been praising him about the beauty he had added to the original piece he had composed. Lorenzo Da Ponte, who had written the libretto this time, had been in full exaltation at the changes and adjustments he had made. Everything seemed to predict that _'La scuola de' gelosi'_ would irrevocably have the success it had had 5 years ago.

So why? Why? He clenched his fingers a bit more tighter together. He tried to search inside of him, seeking to understand his disarray and almost-panic. Nothing was coming… he then decided to do something he hadn't done in years: pray. To pray to God, seek His guidance.

Minutes flew by as he muttered words of encouragement and a prayer that everything would go well. Until suddenly a face appeared in front of his eyes. Hair, cut short, seeming most of the time uncombed and ruffled, a soft-edged straight nose, a childish and wide smile almost never leaving the features and young brown eyes sparkling with wit. He opened his eyes, frowning. Why, by any reason, did his thoughts wander to that man ? A feeling of annoyance washed over him, any idea of continuing his prayer leaving his mind. Mozart was incredibly occupied with _'Die Entführung aus dem Serail_' that had taken its chances and would premier in Poland next month. There was no particular reason as to why he would be thinking about the prodigy composer right now. _'Die Entführung aus dem Serail_' was, he had to admit, one of the finest pieces of music he had heard and well, perhaps he was fearing that the Polish court wouldn't welcome the art and genius Mozart had created. Even if Mozart acted as a loud and childish person, most of the time the younger man knew when to be serious. The music the Austrian composer produced was exquisite and as a maestro himself, Salieri had more than once experienced the humiliation of a failed composition…

No, he didn't wish the prodigy composer any failure. The fear for Mozart's composition must have somehow reflected upon himself. What if his composition wasn't good enough ? What if this revision of his own opera didn't suit the Viennese's taste anymore? What if he would go home disgraced and unemployed? He shook his head, those parasite thoughts had nothing to do in his mind. He let his face relax; feeling relieved.

He glanced at the clock; he still had plenty of time to go back to the Burgtheater before the curtain rose. He took his satchel and carefully deposited the music sheets inside of it. He looked around, making sure he wasn't forgetting anything else. Then something attracted his attention, a detail. He approached his desk. On his well ordered working table, laying there horizontally, was a single red rose, with a little card attached to the stem with a black ribbon.

"_Viel Glück"_

He knew from whom it was, an admirer, it had started ever since the premiere of '_Der Rauchfangkehrer'. _Unexpectedly he had received a red rose with little message coming with it. On the parchment there was written that the beginning of the first act had been utmost pleasurable for the ears. But that sadly the writer had to leave during the middle of the first act, to excuse theiroffence and the disrespectfulness toward Salieri's music they had sent this rose, in a way to apologize. Salieri had felt pretty flattered by the message and found the thought pretty compassionate. The next rose appeared when he had performed a well received piece of chamber music a few weeks after the premiere of the opera buffa. _"To thank you for the beautiful music you made us experience today"_ said the message coming with the flower. The idea of the mysterious writer listening to his music again filled him with confidence. The next rose came the morning of the premiere of _'Semiramide'_. He had worked various nights in a row and he was cruelly missing sleep. He even had fallen asleep in his music room at the palace. He had woken up to the rays of sunlight shining upon his face. Drowsiness clouded his view on the red rose resting on the fortepiano. This time the message said: _"I cannot wait for the performance tonight."_

The gift of a rose had since then become regular, after or before various other concerts and performances, Salieri had found roses in his music room; each time a little message of appreciation or a wish for luck coming with it. It made the Italian composer feel extremely satisfied. Many people had admired and complimented his music through the years. But this was the first time an admirer did it so explicitly.

He picked the flower up and inhaled the sharp perfume as he closed his eyes. He loved the smell of roses. They were unique and each flower had a different smell. For a few minutes he stood there, letting the perfume of roses invading his senses.

He opened his eyes again, he had to go. His hands delicately detached the little message from the stem and with the same care he put the little piece of parchment in the pocket of his waist coat.

Right before he exited the room, a shadow of a thought crossed his mind. Somewhere in his consciousness, not yet coming to surface, the thought told him he knew that the handwriting on the card wasn't all that unfamiliar. He closed the door behind him and went back to the Burgtheater for a successful premiere of the revisited version of _'La scuola de' gelosi,' _marking the opening of the season with many bravos and cheers.

The end


End file.
